Oblivion: Grief of Dawn
by Ghost089
Summary: A reluctant hero whom the Gods set upon a path of chaos as the only one who can help stop the tide of evil threatening to engulf the land. The story of a prisoner who became a champion.
1. Prologue

_**Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion  
Grief of Dawn**_

_**Prologue**_

The sun hung lazily in the sky and cast rays of warm light over the surface of Lake Rumare, turning the calm surface into a sparkling sheet of glass. The shadow of the Imperial City stood proudly before it, a dominating sight of stone structures and the impossibly tall royal palace that stood out starkly against the otherwise simple and scenic view of nature that was nestled around it. An old winding road carved its way through the fields and trees and up the mountains, disappearing over the horizon and drawing its way across the edges of Cyrodiil.

A small figure turned off the path, abandoning the marked trail and instead cutting through the unmarked hills that gently sloped upward into the wild forests. A tiny, ramshackle cottage sat comfortably between two proud trees, overlooking both the magnificent blue lake and the grand city like a lone sentinel quietly observing the flocks of guards and travelers that passed under its silent gaze. Tiny boot-clad feet pattered up to the door, stumbling only once on the craggy patches of ground that peeked through the grass, before grasping the handle and unceremoniously entering without even bothering to knock.

"I _knew_ you'd be here!" A triumphant, slightly annoyed voice said, coming from a small, slightly annoyed-looking Imperial boy.

His eyes swept the two-room cottage only once before honing in on the innocent, upturned face of a little girl who was seated comfortably at a rough wooden table. She smiled at him pleasantly, ignoring the scathing look he was giving her, her blue eyes and straw-blonde hair matching her older brother's, though the resemblance seemed to end there. Her tiny hands were folded neatly around a cracked pewter cup and she seemed quite at home in the quaint little shack, which only seemed to heighten her brother's annoyance.

"Mother is looking everywhere for you," he said with a frown as he crossed the threshold and stood beside the table, hands on his bony hips. "I told her you would be here, wasting the day away once again, when you ought to be minding your chores. You know she doesn't like it when you wander here on your own."

"I knew you would find me here soon, Samuel," the girl replied sweetly, obviously unfazed by her sibling's irate nature. "And besides, I am not alone here. Mother knows Granny is always here, too."

"That's the problem," Sam mumbled.

An old figure that had been bending over the warm and well-lit hearth at the back of the room straightened up and turned, acknowledging Samuel for the first time. The figure was a woman, small, slight, and thinly built, with silver hair tied back neatly in a tight bun at the base of her neck. She had stern, almost fierce green eyes that were set firmly between a narrow nose and the small, pale features of a Breton. She was a lovely old woman, and in spite of her age, her skin was relatively smooth and unwithered, save for firm creases around her thin mouth and eyes and a few shadows of ancient scars on her hands, arms, and even an impressive one than ran across her neck. She held herself with confident posture, bold and seemingly indomitable even aged as she was.

"Good afternoon, Samuel," she greeted him courteously, wiping the ash from her hands on her old, sagging robes. "Sadia has been waiting for you to arrive all morning."

Granny Rumare, as she was sometimes called, was often referred to as the Witch of Lake Rumare, and not without good reason. When the old woman wasn't calmly catching slaughterfish or hunting the occasional wolf--an occupation that was hazardous even for youthful hunters and fishermen--she was usually closed up inside her cottage blending ingredients for potions or working on new spells or Gods-knew-what-else that the Mage's guild probably would have considered risky or irresponsible. She was a quiet woman and kept mostly to herself, never entering the city and instead relying on an assistant or the occasional curious child willing to earn a few coins or a sweet roll to deliver messages or buy her necessities from the Market District.

Children are drawn to enigmas and eccentricities the way bees are drawn to flowers, and the Witch of Lake Rumare was no exception. Her cottage itself was peculiar and fascinating enough to draw the attention of every curious child within and without the city limits. Unassuming and decaying on the outside, inside it was filled with an odd assortment of things. Bowls and jars were overflowing with the strangest plants Sam had ever seen, brightly colored and dangerous things that looked like they had come out of a dream rather than have grown somewhere within Cyrodiil. Baskets bulged with roots and potion ingredients, cupboards were lined with softly glowing crystals and stones, and along the wooden walls hung the weapons and dented armors of adventures past, though who they originally belonged to was anyone's guess. There was always a large pot of something boiling softly within the hearth, and upon the wooden table sat a bowl of fresh fruit and a plate of sweet smelling cakes and rolls. Any child would have found endless delights within the cottage, and endless things to cause trouble with.

Yet most children were too cautious to approach the cottage, save Samuel and Sadia. The place had been their own little haven since the day they had been bold enough to accept a dare and knock on the old door and offer the old woman the newest edition of the_ Black Horse Courier_. Neither child minded their parents' warnings to not bother the elderly Breton, and both found pleasure in running the occasional errand for her, as it usually was rewarded with something delightful.

Yet Samuel was grown now, and took his duty to watch his sister with an unusual amount of seriousness for his age. He was getting to be too big to sneak off to the old witch's house and pester her for stories and fantastical tales of heroes battling ogres and gallant men fighting for the honor of pure maidens. After all, he was nearing twelve--listening to legends was something children did.

That didn't stop him from hesitatingly glancing around the cottage to see if Granny had acquired anything new and interesting, something the woman's sharp green eyes caught. Despite her stern exterior, there was a brightness in her eyes and always a small amused smile tugging at the corners of her thin mouth.

"Would you care for a sweet roll, Samuel?" She offered him politely. It took all of Samuel's pride and self-control to decline--apparently, the recipe Granny used was an old one from a shop in one of the southwest cities, and had been widely renown back in her day.

"I was waiting for you to get here," Sadia said to her brother, showing no signs of wanting to leave and return home, where clothes needed to be washed and floors needed to be swept. "I wanted Granny to tell me a story, but she said you'd be angry if she told it to me without you here."

"I would not," Samuel retorted stubbornly. "I don't have time to listen to old stories anymore anyway, Father is teaching me to be a blacksmith now and I have more important things to do."

"Such a shame," Granny sighed, gathering some of Sadia's dishes and moving them to a stone tub by the window to be washed. "I suppose the two of you best be off, then. Remember to thank your parents for the corn and tomatoes they sent along last time for me, would you?" Sadia frowned. She knew the old woman had probably been expecting this. She wouldn't spin any tales for her without Samuel there, lest Samuel grow cross from being left out, and Samuel was so stubborn about wanting to prove he wasn't a child anymore that he'd never simply ask to stay. Yet Sadia found all the legends of the older days fascinating, and she wasn't about to miss out on a real treat just because her brother was an obstinate pig-head.

"Oh please, Granny, just one?" Sadia begged with the voice of a cherub. "You never refused to tell us a tale before. Please, Samuel likes to listen to them, he truly does, and he'll stay if you agree to tell us a story."

"I would not," Samuel said, though with no real conviction in his voice.

"He would, too, Samuel listens to all the songs the travelers sing in the city, and he reads all the books, and he practices to be a Bard someday himself--"

"Be quiet!" Samuel snapped, his cheeks growing red, and Granny glanced back at him and repressed another smile.

"A Bard, eh?" Granny said thoughtfully. "This is the first I'm hearing of that. The blacksmith vocation not to your liking then?"

Samuel didn't answer.

"What tale would you have me regale you with this time, anyway?" Granny continued, moving to the table and sweeping crumbs to the floor with a slightly crooked hand. "You've listened to the stories of the Knights of the Nine, of the realm of Madness, of Sheogorath and the Greymarch, of the magic painting and the confused twins and the haunted mansion and--"

"What about a tale of the emperor?" Samuel suggested, forgetting himself. "That was back around your time, wasn't it?"

Granny had turned away from the table to reach for a watering can, which she nearly dropped, but caught quickly with an awkward stoop. She was quiet a moment, and unless Sam was mistaken, there seemed to be a sudden tenseness about her.

"What is there to tell of the emperor?" she asked in an even tone with her back to them, setting the can back down as though she had forgotten her use for it. "The old fool and his council-appointed lineage are hardly worth mention--"

"Not the current one," Samuel said, standing a little closer to Sadia, who was smirking at him. "What of the old emperor, of the Dragon's Blood? The tales of the daedric lord, and the battle of the Imperial City, and the Akatosh statue? Do you know any of them?"

"Listen to _The Fall of Dagon_," Granny replied softly. "Walk through any bookstore and search blindly through the shelves. You will turn up a hundred novels by a hundred authors on those battles and times."

"But _you_ tell the old tales best," Sadia pointed out.

This was true, and both children knew it. The old woman had a knack for telling stories, capturing moments that the bards and book writers just couldn't grasp. Like she had been a part of the adventures, a part of the events.

Granny gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh as she crossed back to the hearth and stoked the already blazing fire. "Not today, children," she said quietly. "Perhaps another time."

"Oh please, Granny!" Sadia whined. "Please, just for a little while, just for a moment! Just one story."

"A story like that takes more than a moment, child," Granny said stubbornly, but she made the fatal error of turning to catch Sadia's eye. The little girl had caused them to grow big and wide and round as saucers, large and pleading and innocent as a blue-eyed fawn. Samuel had to give her credit, no one pulled off the imploring puppy-dog-eyes attack like Sadia, and such a gaze stilled even the Witch of Lake Rumare.

"Just one story," Sadia dropped her voice to a quiet, beseeching murmur, just the right tone to really twist in the knife. "_Please_." Even Samuel couldn't tear himself away now. He'd heard his parents mention some of the battles _their_ parents had lived through, of the Oblivion Crisis and the Battle of Bruma, of the illegitimate heir to the throne and the mysterious Champion of Cyrodiil. Surely the old woman knew some of those tales herself, and surely her smooth voice could cast a spell over them and make it as though they themselves were personally reliving such adventures.

Granny moved slowly, almost wearily and deliberately. She remembered her watering can at last and tended to a few softly glowing roots with light blue leaves. She set it down afterwards and shuffled back to the hearth. The children watched her every move with bated breath. Finally, she lowered herself into an old chair and sighed, folding her hands in her lap and looking at the two of them thoughtfully. A long finger twisted around a broken golden chain that was fastened and knotted inelegantly around her thin wrist, catching light from both the fire and the sunrays leaking through the window and dappling it against the wall.

"All right," she said quietly. "One story."

Sadia gave a squeal of delight and launched herself from her chair, bounding over to the rug by the hearth. Samuel held his excitement with a little more dignity and slowly moved across the room to join his sister at Granny's feet. The woman laughed, and her eyes had their pleased glint back in them again.

"Such avid listeners," she chuckled. "Shouldn't you be out playing knights and bandits rather than listening to an old woman prattle on about the past?"

"Samuel and his friends always play too rough," Sadia replied with a shrug.

"All right," Granny rubbed her eyes a bit and thought. "This is a tale from long before either of you were born. It happened years ago, in the closing days of the Third Era, in the year of Akatosh, 433. It begins, as most tales do, with a young hero…"

"A gallant and noble hero, right? A champion from a faraway land?" Sadia asked excitedly, receiving a hissing reprimand from Samuel.

"Hardly," Granny continued patiently. "It begins with a simple person in a simple place, right here in Cyrodiil. It begins in the Imperial Prison…"


	2. Chapter One

_**Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion  
Grief of Dawn**_

_**Chapter One: The Prisoner's Visitor**_

The dank, putrid air of the Imperial Prison really has a scent all its own, and those who have never had the misfortune of experiencing it should consider themselves extremely lucky.

As for those who are far less fortunate in life...well, may the Gods have pity on them.

A barred window set high in the stone wall of the prison cell allowed a cruelly tantalizing view of the free, open sky, the only patch of sky that was visible to the prisoner anymore. The sounds of the birds during the day and the bugs at night were the only pleasant sounds that seemed to exist in the world. All other noises only amplified the darkness that was the reality of that Gods-forsaken place: the sound of guards shouting, the sound of prisoners screaming, and the endlessly maddening sound of the constant dripping that came from every wall and every corridor. Impossibly large rats scuttled about in the shadows, casting reproachful gazes at the prisoners as if to ask, _"__When will you hurry up and die so that I might gnaw on your bones a bit before they throw you in the lake?" _At least some of the rats were patient. Others had grown big enough and bold enough to help the inmates meet their maker a bit more quickly, and the method in which they did so was always extremely unpleasant.

A lone prisoner sat with her back pressed firmly against the cold stone wall and her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her fierce green eyes, staring out from above deep, dark circles, were fixed resolutely on a point directly in front of her, both seeing and not seeing anything at all. Her entire body ached from sitting in such a way for such a long time, but how long specifically she had been there was a mystery. Long enough for her long, black hair to grow dull and matted around her shoulders and down her back. Long enough for her smooth skin to become sallow and filthy from prison grime. Long enough for her thin prison clothes to turn tattered and frayed, almost to the point that they could not really qualify as proper clothes anymore at all.

Long enough for her to grow really, _really_ tired of sitting there.

A scuffling sound and several loud curses from a Dark Elf inmate did little to draw her attention. The scoundrel in the cell across from her had been dragged out of his stone prison an hour or so ago to receive "special" attention from the guards, who seemed to still be fairly irate with the fiend for having tried to bite and claw another guard when he had brought the Dunmer his food earlier that morning. The guards had now returned him to his cell, unceremoniously tossing him inside like a bag of potatoes that had just been subjected to a rather sound thrashing from punishers wearing metal gauntlets. The insolent shrieks and Dunmeri swearwords echoed through the dimly lit prison passages, but eventually died down and left the place as still as it had been before, save for his ragged breathing and spitting out the occasional mouthful of blood.

The Dunmer muttered a few words under his breath before turning to the young woman in the cell across from him. He had paid her little to no attention in the previous days that they had been neighbors, but now he considered her, leaning against the barred door that separated him from freedom. His mood was understandably rotten, and he appeared to focus on her as a way to relieve some of his frustration.

"Pale face, snobby expression," he said as he assessed her like an animal at a fair, "you're a Breton, eh? The so-called masters of magicka. Fancy seeing one of your kind here. What's wrong? Didn't your little magicka spells help you escape the guards? No? What a pity. Guess you Breton are no better than the rest of us lowlifes, regardless of how you put on your airs. You're nothing but a stuck-up harlot with cheap parlor tricks."

He received no response, not even a bat of a lash or turn of a gaze from the Breton. Rather than deter him, it only seemed to grant him access to continue.

"Why not show a little magicka talent here? Let's see you make those bars disappear. No? What's that you say? The magicka wards are keeping you from casting any spells? Guess that means you're stuck here, like the rest of us." His voice lowered to a soft, cold hiss. "And you won't be leaving here anytime soon. Not until they throw your body to the slaughterfish. That's right," he added with menace, "you're going to _die_ in here, Breton. You're going to _die_."

The girl tightened her arms around her knees and narrowed her eyes, but gave no more sign that she had even heard a single word the Dunmer was throwing at her. Yet inside, something twisted. Death...it hadn't been wholly unexpected, nor was it wholly undeserved. She knew she would probably never see the outside world again, and her own sense of responsibility for the matter had kept her from even attempting to escape the Imperial Prison(a feat even the cleverest of criminals had failed at, save for some lucky bastard from several decades before). Yet upon hearing the word itself from an outside source, it suddenly seemed like the cage of mortality was closing in further and further around her. The shadows were suddenly far more ominous, and the cell was suddenly far too small. Had Grief Terrim been less stubborn, she probably would have cried out in fear and despair.

However, Grief was both obstinate and proud, and would not allow her anguish to show, especially not when she knew it would do nothing but satisfy the old sadist that continued to assail her with dark words and hopeless truths. If she was to die, she would do so silently, coldly, not crying out to the night like a frightened child, not begging for some trace of mercy or absolution. She would give neither the Gods nor the shadows, nor the increasingly annoying Dunmer wretch across from her, the satisfaction of knowing that she had neither chosen nor resigned herself to her fate.

Yet fate has, as it always seems, different ideas.

A sound from above caused a pause in the Dunmer's tirade, and he stopped to listen. Heavy footfalls were coming down the staircase, and his eyes lit up as he looked back to Grief.

"Hear that?" he whispered excitedly. "The guards are coming. For you!" He let his maniacal laughter overpower the sound of the approaching guards for a moment before slipping back into the corner of his cell.

"Baurus," a formidable female voice rang out, "lock that door behind us."

"Yessir."

As the voices grew closer, Grief could hear the soft murmur of an older man. "My sons," he said quietly, his speech slow and laden with a kind of knowing sadness, "they're dead, aren't they?"

"We don't know that, Sire, the messenger only said they were attacked," the woman tried to reassure him.

"No," he replied, "they're dead. I know it."

Captain Renault looked at her lord as she led him down the narrow stairs. The emperor was old, and the recent events had left him looking even older than usual, as there was a weariness in which he carried himself that she was not accustom to seeing. What she was accustom to was his unwavering resolution, his belief in himself and what he knew and said. She knew there was no arguing with the old man when he spoke as he did now. Whatever truth he accepted, he accepted it as a solid fact.

"My job right now is to get you to safety," she said as she and another Blade, Glenroy, approached the cell that was their destination.

When her gaze fell upon the prisoner that sat there, staring at a wall, her stern voice cracked with real anger. "What's this prisoner doing here?" she demanded, her eyes boring into Glenroy. "This cell is supposed to be off-limits!"

Glenroy quailed under Renault's gaze and stammered a weak excuse, which the captain waved aside impatiently. "Never mind, just get the damn gate open."

The demands of the guards seemed to finally inspire some real reaction in Grief, as she turned and looked at them while they shouted at her to back up against the wall and not move. She took far more time than they wished, rising slowly to her feet in a way that suggested she was quite stiff in the joints, though she moved while keeping her back to the wall and her soon-to-be cell intruders in her direct line of sight. Baurus reappeared as Glenroy fumbled with the prison keys to unlock the gate.

"No sign of pursuit," he said to the captain. She nodded her head curtly, and there was a faint sign of relief on her severe features. Since the news of the attacks on Uriel Septim's three heirs, things had gotten progressively worse every moment they remained within the city limits. The last thing Captain Renault or any of them wanted was to be attacked by their mysterious assailants while trapped within the shady confines of the Imperial Prison, surrounded by the worst scum the city had to offer.

Glenroy strode forward and planted himself firmly in front of the prisoner, his angry little eyes sizing her up immediately. She was thin and lithe, supple rather than curvaceous, and he took comfort in the fact that the magicka wards made the Breton about as dangerous as an average bandit in the streets. A swift run with his sword would ensure that she caused no trouble. Grief, picking up on his train of thought, was silent and made no moves that might provoke the already agitated Blade.

Grief took a moment to allow a ripple of curiosity to bubble up from beneath her cool facade. Three guards were now standing in her cell, forming a tight little triangle around an elderly man dressed in the finest robes she had ever seen. He was old, but proud and noble in his appearance, yet there was something detached in his eyes, and he moved as though shouldering a great burden. Whoever he was, he must have been important. For the life of her, Grief couldn't imagine what had brought him to the depths of the Imperial Prison, dressed as though he were attending a royal court, with a great blood-red jewel dangling brightly against his chest.

Captain Renault advanced, her hand outstretched, and began to trace her fingertips against the stone wall. She appeared focused, trying to remember the placement of something she hadn't seen or used in quite a long time. Her hand stopped several times before it found a particular rock and put pressure on it. The wall in front of her creaked with the grating sound of stone on stone, then moved, scattering a shower of dust and cobwebs. Grief stared in disbelief--of all the things! Here she was, sitting in what appeared to be the one cell with a proper escape route, unaware that her chance at freedom lay not three paces in front of her.

Captain Renault ushered her odd and well-armed entourage forward towards the dark passage, where great blasts of cool and stale air was rushing through the opening. Uriel Septim moved to follow, his gaze passing briefly over the prisoner before him...

...and he stopped where he stood.

"You," he said, a sudden realization dawning on his features. "I've _seen_ you..."

To everyone's utter amazement, the emperor strode forward boldly and extended a wrinkled hand, reaching past the curtains of lank hair and grasping Grief's chin gently in his fingers. He tilted her chin upward so that her hair fell backwards, allowing more freedom for a closer examination.

"Let me see your face," he said quietly when Grief tried to pull away. Something in his tone stilled her into compliance, and she looked into those distant blue eyes with confusion. "You are the one from my dreams."

He let his hand drop away, and his gaze turned upward, towards the window. "Then the stars were right," he said heavily, "and this is the day. Gods, give me strength."

There was a silent moment of pure bewilderment that was tangibly felt by the three Blades and the Breton prisoner. It was Grief who broke the emperor's reverie.

"What is going on here?" she asked in a voice strained from lack of use or water over the past few days.

Uriel turned back to Grief. The impassive look in his eyes had lessened, and his tone was civil and oddly practical for an emperor addressing a lowly prisoner.

"Assassins have killed my sons, and I am to be next. My Blades are leading me out of the city by way of a secret escape route...a route that, by chance, leads through _your_ cell."

Grief frowned. Something in his tone...she didn't like the way he said 'chance'. Nor did she like the way he was addressing her, looking at her, as though she had suddenly changed from a dirt-covered prisoner to something...else, something more. Something that offered this sorrowful old stranger a mysterious measure of hope.

"Who _are_ you?" she asked softly.

"I am your Emperor, Uriel Septim," he answered. "By the grace of the Gods, I have ruled over Tamriel, and walked the path the Divines have set before me. Yet my path is coming to an end, and yours...yours is now beginning." his expression softened to one akin to sympathy. "Harsh as it will be, you must travel it. You must help us all, for the Gods have decreed that you alone may stand against the fires of destruction that threatens Tamriel. You alone may be able to help save us."

Grief stared at him, her lips parted slightly in total disbelief. _Just who __**is **__this old fool,_ she thought. Was this crazy old man who stood there, so calmly having a conversation about dreams and fate and destruction with a morally objectionable prisoner, really the emperor of Cyrodiil? It was so ridiculous that she actually snorted in bitter amusement.

"Your Gods can do or say whatever they wish," she said coldly. "I go my own way in this world, and I highly doubt, _Your Grace_," she added with heavy sarcasm, "that my way would suit the style of your Gods. Why else do you think I'm here?" Her raising of a long, pale hand to gesture at her surroundings caused all three Blades to grow tense, but the emperor had not flinched.

"We all go our own way in this life," Emperor Uriel Septim agreed, his mouth curving into a small, patient smile that was starkly inappropriate given the circumstances, "and we all make decisions that eventually cast us into our present state of being. Yet the path fixed by the Gods is far less easily avoided. As for what you have done," he added, "that does not matter."

The Breton let her hand drop, and her expression was now startled.

"_That_ is not what you will be _remembered_ for."

Grief matched his gentle blue-eyed gaze with her own intensely defiant green-eyed one. Yet somehow, she found it like trying to stare directly into the sun. After a few seconds, it became too much for her to bear, and she was forced to look away.

"You're a fool," she whispered under her breath.

"Sire, please, we _must_ keep moving," Captain Renault spoke up. She and her fellow Blades had been engrossed in the strange conversation their emperor had been having, but were now impatient. They needed to go. Whatever foe they were trying to elude, Grief realized it must have been a highly dangerous one, for them to try their luck at escape rather than trust the Imperial Guards.

Baurus looked back at Grief as Captain Renault, the emperor, and Glenroy strode ahead of him and disappeared down into the rocky passage. The route would have to be left open, and it was too much to hope the prisoner would not follow.

"Looks like this is your lucky day," he said to her coolly. "But if you value your life, you'll stay out of our way."

Grief waited until he, too, had been swallowed up by darkness before she moved. The escape route looked ancient, and seemed to lead far underground; where it would end up, she had no clue. She didn't relish the idea of being in close proximity with three well-armed guards within the depths of a passage that looked as though it could collapse on them at any minute, but...

_I'll take my chances. Anywhere is better than here._

Grief stepped forward, but then stopped_. _She turned and looked at the Dunmer prisoner who had been watching the entire transaction, his expression a mixture of incredulity and fury. For a moment, she just looked at him. Then, she allowed a cruel, satisfied smirk to overtake her features before she gave him a mockingly cheery wave and vanished through the passage, his shouts and swearing ringing merrily in her heart as she did.


	3. Chapter Two

_**Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion  
Grief of Dawn**_

_**Chapter Two: Through The Shadows**_

In all her life, Grief would never have expected this.

Were someone to tell her that she would wind up in prison one day, she would have laughed at that person without surprise.

Were someone to tell her she would have found a way to flee that prison via a secret underground escape route used exclusively by the emperor and his personal bodyguards, she would have congratulated that person for being blessed with the skill of creativity.

Were someone to tell her she would have done so after just meeting the emperor himself, who would inform her of some role she had in the fate of all of Tamriel, she would have asked that person about their recent skooma consumption and advise them to seek medical help immediately.

Yet to actually find herself in that situation...well, it would always remain a feeling for which she would never be able to accurately describe.

"Only you, Grief," she muttered to herself in mild exasperation.

The passageways through the underground ruins that made up the secret escape route were old, far older than anyone could precisely say. Grief would have guessed them to be Ayleid, though as she was not an avid ruin examiner they could have been made by anyone or anything. All she knew was that the dilapidated remains of what may have once been a vast and impressive labyrinth were difficult to maneuver through, even if they hadn't been blanketed in shadows. The darkness made for good hiding spots, perfect for her to lurk in quietly as she trailed after the sputtering flame that was Glenroy's lit torch, yet the blackness was as unnerving as it was useful. There was something disquieting about the place, about the whole situation, and Grief cursed at herself silently each time she was startled by a stray cobweb or stumbled over an unseen rock. She kept as much distance between herself and her unwilling guides as the lack of light allowed, and luckily that distance kept her from alerting them wholly to her presence. Even if they were mildly aware that she was close by, she preferred them not to have an exact idea of where.

They trudged along in tense silence for a time. It wasn't until they neared a larger stone room that something stirred. Grief noticed it first. It wasn't a sight, or a smell, or even a sound that she detected, but rather an odd sensation, a changing in the stale air around them, like a silent ripple in water. Something nearby prickled with magicka, and Grief had just enough time to register that a spell had been cast somewhere from within the depths of the stone catacombs before there was a harsh cry and the sound of metal boots landing heavily on the cracked floor. Demonic figures leapt out of the darkness, dressed in Daedric armor and wielding jagged weapons, the likes of which Grief had never seen. The emperor's Blades shouted and rushed their attackers while the emperor backed further to the wall, watching the scene unravel before his eyes with the same detached sort of expression he had worn earlier. Grief made to move forward, as if to help, when she suddenly became painfully aware that she was unarmed and had little more than rags to protect her against the very real, very sharp weapons the attackers were using. Besides, why should she even care? The battle, while fierce, was over in a matter of moments, and when it ended, several assassins dressed now only in blood-red robes lay beside the fallen body of a Blade.

There was no time to mourn Captain Renault. She had fought valiantly to protect her emperor, and had died bravely in the process. Under any other circumstances, neither Baurus nor Glenroy, nor Emperor Uriel Septim, would have been content with abandoning her body there. Yet they had no time. The presence of their mysterious assailants, who had somehow succeeded in trailing them to the most secret of escape routes in the Imperial City, pressed them forward urgently.

"It's not over yet," the emperor said gravely as he looked down at Captain Renault and the several dead strangers who had wanted desperately to end his life. "Worse is yet to come."

Grief couldn't be sure, but in the flickering of Glenroy's relit torch, she thought she'd seen the old man look over to where she remained hidden.

The two remaining Blades reached a heavy door and ushered the emperor through. Baurus paused but a moment to glace back around the darkened room.

"Stay here, prisoner," he ordered, though his eyes had yet to pinpoint her location. "Don't even try to follow us."

Then he, too, disappeared, and the chamber echoed with the sound of an ancient lock barring what appeared to be the one way to freedom.

Of course, Grief attempted to follow. The sense that she may yet find a way out of that wretched place was too much for her to give up that easily. Yet the door was as unyielding as she was, and no matter what means she tried to use to persuade the damn thing to open, it was useless. Grief sat down, bad-temperedly rubbing her foot after an ill-planned and frustrated kick had left it throbbing in pain, and took a moment to examine the bodies of the dead that were splayed out around her.

Underneath their crimson robes and hoods, the assassins that had failed in their attempts to slay the emperor looked no different from your average stranger out on the streets. Men and women and mer...those who would have been haggling over book prices in the Market District or cheering with companions over a few bottles of ale. Everyday people whose lives had ended because for some reason, they had seen it necessary to endeavor to take the life of the man who ruled over them.

Why? This was not Morrowind-there were no riots taking place, no drastic shifts in power, no slavery or famine that needed to be dealt with or desperate measures that needed to be taken. Uriel Septim, as far as Grief knew(which admittedly was not a lot), was neither a harsh nor an unfair emperor. Why would these people, probably native to Cyrodiil, be out to kill him and all his heirs? What did they have to gain by causing such unrest within their own land?

Grief lifted one of the hoods and peered curiously into the glazed eyes of the would-be killer.

_What was it all for?_

A grating noise jolted her out of her thoughts. One of the ancient walls in the chamber was straining under the frenzied pressure of some creature located on the other side. Correction-_creatures_. The scent of fresh blood that came from the dead had attracted the attention of several very large and very voracious rats, who were now swarming out through the opening they had created in the stone wall and squeaking excitedly. Their bulging black eyes shone with hunger as they descended upon the scene...and by their mad racket and the way they lunged at her, Grief guessed they preferred their meal alive.

She tried to jump to her feet, but lost her balance on the uneven stone steps and fell backwards, a hand coming up just as a rat that was, no kidding, the size of a bloody _dog_ leapt at her. The manacle on her wrist held up fabulously against the gnashing of pointed teeth, but her clothes did little to protect from the ripping of savage claws. Grief kicked out with her uninjured foot and managed to knock the beast off her, rolling to the side and attempting to regain her balance as she dragged herself up. At the same time, the rats seemed determined to drag her back down, and a piercing pain shot up her leg while the warm flow of blood dribbled down her ankle. She turned violently, her hand raising threateningly and her palm stretching outward as the flow of magicka built behind her fingertips...

...and then her hand twitched, jerking in the manner of a reflexive move of the body being forcefully stopped by the mind, and no fire or ice or bolt appeared. Something in her mind gripped her like a vice, the likes of which not even the threat of pain and death could help her to escape.

_Oh damn it, damn it all to the deepest levels of Oblivion...!_

Her other hand brushed against the ground, displacing something at her side. Fingers folded around the hilt of a katana, and with one fluid movement she brought the blade slashing up and against her furry foes. Steel ripped through flesh and splintered against brittle rib bones, and the grip on her leg lessened enough to wrench it free and stagger to her feet. Grief switched the blade into her more dominant hand and lunged, skewering another rat through the abdomen as it made a violent leap at her throat. Two more were dispatched of easily enough, now that Grief was armed, and when everything had stopped moving, only she remained still breathing, the bodies of rats now mingling with the other corpses.

Grief took a few minutes to collect herself and still her racing heart. A brief examination of her leg told that the wound was not terrible, but fear of infection from rotting teeth was. Yet it seemed as though no force on earth would allow her to cast the minor healing spell that would easily fix the injuries she suffered, so she opted(still swearing under her breath) to make a crude bandage out of cloth torn from the red robes scattered across the floor. After all, their wearers would need them no longer. Then, wiping sweat from her brow that had plastered her filthy hair against her forehead, she approached the opening in the wall that had been created. It seemed to lead to a tunnel, though whether it was natural or whether it had been carved out by the vermin was unclear. Still, her choices were limited to thus: remain there and wait for more hungry rats to arrive, or continue forward to wherever the path may lead.

Grief tied the sword to her hip with Captain Renault's belt and continued forward.

xxxxxxxxxx

The underground passage _beneath_ the underground escape route was even darker and danker than the crumbling ruins had been. Save for a few cracks in the ceiling that allowed some light to filter through, the tunnels were engulfed in complete blackness, and it took a while for Grief's eyes to adjust enough to press forward. She hugged the walls and moved slowly, meticulously, with the careful patience of prey doing its utmost against attracting any unwanted attention.

There were plenty of things lurking within those tunnels to warrant such caution.

Ridiculously large and violent rats turned out to be the least of the threats. Goblins had also made the caves their homes, and their choice of decoration-skulls and bones and fires that cast evil shadows across the caverns-did little for Grief's nerves. Yet they were not the worst things she encountered down there, as they had proven easy enough to kill with a stealthy approach and a quick cut of the throat. The worst was something else, when she was just growing acclimated enough to the darkness to allow for slightly quicker movement. The stumbling of a body ahead alerted her to something much bigger lurching about in the obscure tunnels. At first, Grief had mistaken it to be a human; perhaps one of the emperor's own men who had been wounded and cut off from the others, desperately trying to make his way back to a familiar point. In a moment of utter foolishness, Grief stepped forward from her cover of darkness to assist in fighting off more rats, only to discover with absolute horror that the thing was definitely _not_ human. Not anymore, at least. It may have been, at one time, yet fate had played the cruelest hand possible in determining this unlucky bastard's end. Stinking, rotting flesh clung to decaying muscles and deteriorating bones. Sightless eyes rolled back in a half-exposed skull, and Grief's half-thought-out attempts at assistance turned into a panicked battle against the one creature she abhorred, to the very depth of her being: the undead.

It was some time before her stomach had stopped heaving and the scent of mort flesh had dissipated. After that, she was too wearied to continue fighting, and instead did her best to maneuver past her enemies rather than confront them. Any alerted fiend was either silenced with a quick lash of her sword, or simply outrun.

It was hard to say how long it was before the tunnel gradually became less rock and more of the carefully-placed stone the ruins had been constructed out of. Eventually, the path came to another crumbled wall, which opened into a pillared room, which Grief had the high ground to. Beneath her was a chamber not unlike the one with the door where the emperor and his men had managed to shake her off. Grief crept closer to the edge of the ledge where she was positioned, and saw she was not alone.

Emperor Uriel Septim and his two remaining Blades were also within the chamber, and they all looked about as wearied and exhausted as Grief felt. If she had managed to keep pace with them, even with her lurking about in the lower tunnels for Gods-knew-how-long, then they must have had to fight tooth and nail to get to where they were. Their armor and weapons were tarnished with the blood of, presumably, more assassins, and even the emperor's robes had become dirtied with crimson. He stood there, deep within his own thoughts, while his two bodyguards argued heatedly with one another.

"...until help arrives!"

"Help?" Baurus said incredulously, his fist clenched over his sword, which he didn't even bother to sheathe anymore. "What help do you think will get here before more of those bastards? We need to get the emperor out of here!"

"And if we press forward and get ourselves trapped within even closer quarters, what then?" Glenroy demanded. "The further we go, the worse things get! Our best decision is to find a defensible spot and-"

"Have you seen the prisoner?"

The emperor's voice, though far quieter, seemed to cut through the air more soundly than Glenroy's or Baurus's. Glenroy had stopped mid-sentence, and seemed startled.

"The prisoner?" Baurus frowned, and his eyes swiveled about the room. "Do you think she followed us?"

"Impossible!" Glenroy said disbelievingly. "How could she?"

Grief stilled her body completely as the emperor answered softly, "I know she did."

Had she been paying more attention, Grief would have noticed the stones underneath her feet beginning to crumble with the strain of her weight. Had she been paying more attention, she would have stepped lightly and nimbly backwards, to avoid what was to come. Yet she did not. Weariness and the constant fighting had dulled her usually sharp senses, and she didn't realize the instability beneath her until it was fast becoming too late.

In the end, Baurus's way of thinking seemed to win out against Glenroy's, yet when they finally decided to press forward, it was the emperor who showed no signs of haste.

"Sire," Glenroy tried to rouse his lord, "please, we need to move."

Grief was letting her curiosity get the better of her. The words the old man had spoken to her in her cell were still skirting about her mind like spiders in the corners of the ruins.

"Not yet," the emperor said.

He was crazy, she was sure of this. Yet he seemed just as sure of what he had spoken to her, seemed to accept it as real _fact_, his silly talk of dreams and fate...

The rocks underneath her slid a little.

"My Lord, please, we've got to go _now_."

"Let me rest a moment longer," was the emperor's wearied reply.

Grief tried to get a look at where they were heading. If she managed to slip by them and find out where the tunnel ended up...

The weak stones gave way a bit more. Her weight was balanced precariously where she was perched.

"Just a moment longer."

This time, Grief felt the shift in the stability beneath her, and tried to lean back.

"Just a moment..."

In that moment, her perch gave way and Grief fell with the crumble of dust and rock to the chamber beneath her, landing painfully on her backside and rolling until she came to a stop against one of the stone pillars in the room.

Her sudden and rather clumsy entrance had startled all save the old man, who was looking at her with polite expectation.

"Dammit!" Glenroy snarled when he had recovered from his initial shock, his hand tugging his sword from his scabbard. "Kill her! She must be working with the assassins!"

Grief's eyes grew wide as he advanced on her. Her back was against the pillar, she had nowhere to run, and the emperor's bodyguard meant business. Baurus lifted his own sword as well. After all that fighting through the tunnels, just to be cut down here...

"No," she hissed, her voice strained as her hand fastened on Captain Renault's sword. "Stay away from me...!"

Magicka tingled in her arms, but none came forth, and Glenroy raised his sword.

_Stay away-_

"Stop," ordered the emperor, his Imperial tone full of commanding force. "She is not one of them."

Glenroy looked back to the emperor. "But My Lord-"

"She can help us. She _must_ help us."

A second passed, and then another. Glenroy reluctantly lowered his weapon, though he eyed Grief with mistrust and disdain.

"As you wish, Sire."

For the second time, Grief watched in silent astonishment as the emperor boldly strode towards her, stopping and looking down at her with a gentle expression on his elderly features. Then, even more to her surprise and the surprise of his guards, Uriel Septim knelt down so that he was at eye level with the tattered, grimy and worn prisoner that sat before him.

"Are you wounded?" He asked. Grief stared at him a moment, then shook her head mutely.

Baurus sighed, resignation and frustration on his features, as he nervously checked the area for more potential threats that may fall from the higher levels. Glenroy muttered something darkly and moved to the path they were to continue towards, raising his torch to allow him to see as far ahead as he could. Grief wanted to keep them both within her line of sights, but it was impossible.

"Do not think too harshly of them," the emperor said to her quietly. "They simply cannot understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I've seen."

Grief shifted a little, as a stone was being pressed against her thigh rather painfully. "...well," she cleared her throat and frowned, "I'm with them on that matter, really. I can't understand why in the world you'd trust me, either, old man."

Uriel didn't seem to mind her lack of courtesy, but rubbed his tired eyes with his hand. "How can I explain?" he murmured, more to himself than anything. He stopped and took a moment to study the Breton, and she felt as though he were struggling to find the words needed to elucidate the matter.

"Listen," he began, "you know the Nine Divines, and how they guide our fates with an invisible hand?"

Grief appeared more confused now than ever as the discussion turned back to the Gods. Yet there was a chill in her green eyes that was mirrored in her voice when she said flatly, "I know of them."

"I have served the Nine all my days, and chart my course by the cycle of the Heavens," Uriel continued. "The numberless sparks that fill the sky are each a sign that whispers with knowledge of what is to come. Tell me, under which sign were you born?"

Grief shifted again, though it was caused by discomfort of a different kind. Her tone was hesitant, reluctant. "The Serpent. Why? What do a bunch of stars have to do with any of this?"

"The stars have long since shown my path to me," he answered. "I have seen my fate, and know that my death, while necessary, is fast approaching. Yet in those signs, I have seen another fate that hangs in the balance, unclear as to how it will end, but offering a measure of hope that all has not been lost."

He was looking at her in that way again, seeing _through_ her and down to something more, like she was something greater than a small, filthy Breton prisoner. Frustration built up within her chest at the calmness the emperor possessed.

"So what is this all for, then?" Grief asked, nodding towards Glenroy's back. "Your men have fought and died to keep you alive. If you knew you were going to die, why drag them here with you? Why not just sit in your palace and rot if you've already resigned yourself to the death they've given their_ lives_ to protect you from?"

"My men have proven their loyalty to me unto the end," Uriel agreed, and his voice had a hint of sorrow. "But I cannot stray from my path, not when so much lies at stake. Without them, I would not have made it this far, and without them, you and I would have never met. That itself has made every step here worth it. I know not how your story will come to a close, but I know that within your stars the glimmer of salvation does exist. In your face, I see the sun's companion, the brilliant dawn of Akatosh that might banish the coming darkness. With the knowledge that there is still hope, my heart must be satisfied, and I can go now to my grave without regret."

Grief struggled for several seconds to find the proper words with which to respond. Sarcastic quips and irate retorts all vanished before reaching her lips. More than anything, she probably just looked like a beached slaughterfish, opening and closing her mouth and staring with disbelief into the serene face of the emperor. How? How could he say such things, such...wild, ridiculously crazy things with such real conviction? How could he be so calm about his apparent impending doom?

More than anything, what bothered Grief most was that, the way he spoke, the way he held her gaze unflinchingly...she almost wanted to _believe_ him.

"Aren't you afraid to die?" she finally whispered.

"No trophies of my triumphs precede me," he answered. "But I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. Men are but flesh and blood; they know their doom, but not the hour. In this, I am blessed to see the hour of my death, to meet my apportioned fate, then fall."

His tone was practical and matter-of-fact, enough so that Grief could tell it caused everyone, particularly the two Blades within the room doing their utmost to keep their lord alive, considerable tension. However, if the emperor noticed, he gave no sign of it.

"Come," he said to her. "We have lingered here now long enough. You shall follow me for a while, then we must part."

Grief did not move. Her mouth became a thin, hard line. "What makes you think I want any part of your delusions?" She asked. "Think what you want, dream what you will. I don't dance on a string for any of your beloved Gods, and I don't want any crazed assassin mistaking me for one of your protectors and running me through." Her voice became a little resentful. "I'm not a hero."

"Perhaps not now," the emperor reasoned. "Yet a greater destiny awaits you than an inglorious death in a prison cell, or beneath a crumbling ruin. Whether you believe or doubt matters little in this moment. What matters is that your actions and decisions have weight, and your life has meaning. Your fate is bound up with mine, and with the fate of all of Tamriel. Come." He stood up and looked down at her. "Come with us."

She stared at his back as he turned and walked away from her, so sure, so strong in his own beliefs. So strong in his incomprehensible belief in _her_, of all people.

Grief got to her feet and followed him into the darkness.


	4. Chapter Three

_****__**Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion  
Grief of Dawn**_

_**Chapter Three: The Emperor's Last Request**_

Shadows pooled in every corner and enveloped every narrow, crumbling passage, giving way almost reluctantly to the light of the fire that was the softly sputtering torch. Glenroy took the lead, his hands now open to use his weapon freely, his small, angry eyes staring suspiciously into each darkened space. The emperor walked slowly behind him, immersed in his own private thoughts while his detached blue eyes stared blankly ahead. Grief walked a few paces behind him, holding the torch as high as her aching arm would allow now that the thin scrap of wood had been passed on as her responsibility. Baurus took the rear and cast uneasy looks occasionally over his shoulder, wondering where the next wave of attackers would hit them from...and when.

A nervous silence had settled over the odd group as they made their way through the ruins and towards whatever destination lie ahead. Though her entire body was painfully wearied, Grief remained as alert as she was able to. The stillness only made her more suspicious that something was lurking, waiting patiently for them to be lulled into a false sense of safety, waiting for them to accept that they were ahead of the danger, before delivering a final blow. She shuddered at the thought, and it made the firelight tremble a little. The day had just been too damn chaotic.

While they walked, their footsteps echoing eerily off the ancient stones that whispered with memories long forgotten, Grief glanced continuously at the emperor. He had yet to say a word to her since she had practically fallen into his lap in the previous chambers, and his face wore a tired, submissive expression. Part of her wanted to prod him for more information, to ask him more questions, but she banished the thought impatiently. He'd probably just prattle on about stars and dreams and fate again, which were all topics she felt she'd exhausted enough in the past few hours to last her a lifetime. Yet there was something about his voice that drew her rapt attention. It might have been his Imperial nature, or the fact that he had been ruler of the land for decades, Grief didn't know. What she did know is that she felt a mixture of confusion and resentment when it came to the old man. A couple times since she had joined his entourage, they had been attacked by more of the demonic-looking assassins dressed in daedric armor and shouting mindless nonsense in their quest for Uriel Septim's blood. One assassin managed to break through both Glenroy's and Baurus's attempts to stave them off, and before she knew what she was doing, Grief had placed herself between the murderous lunatic and the emperor, Captain Renault's katana the only thing she had that could be used to defend herself against the well-armed and well-armored killer.

The sound of metal striking against metal reverberated through the passages as Grief deflected the assassin's blow, parrying another and managing to push the attacker back a step or two where Baurus, who had helped fell the other foes, cut the stranger's life short with a quick and well-aimed stab with his blade. When all was quiet save for their ragged, adrenaline-laced breathing, Grief realized what she had done.

She whirled around and looked, almost accusingly, at the emperor, who caught her eye but said nothing before calmly walking past her to continue on what he considered to be his final journey. She did not understand it. Her body had reacted to the threat before her mind, and had she not had lifetime's experience of magicka as a Breton, she would have thought Uriel Septim had cast some sort of spell on her to force her into protective loyalty. Yet that was not the case, and she knew the reasoning behind it was far more difficult to grasp. All she did now was follow a step behind him to ensure she did not make such a mistake again.

As the time they spent walking uninterrupted by onslaught lengthened more and more, Grief allowed her pace to slow a little, and she dropped back to walk beside Baurus. Though far from possessing his lord's inexplicable trust for formerly imprisoned strangers, Baurus seemed far less suspicious of her than Glenroy, who still acted as though he desired nothing more than to run her through and be rid of her presence. Were it not for Uriel's orders, he probably would have done just that.

"Where are we going?" she asked him in a low voice as she saw him peer around the room they entered, searching for any sign of danger.

"The sewers," he replied shortly.

"The sewers?"

"The tunnels end at a secret entrance to the sewers," he explained quietly, still cautiously inspecting every inch of every alcove they came across. "From there, we'll be outside the city limits, and from there, we can get the emperor to safety."

Grief frowned. "Exactly how secret was this little passage of yours?"

Baurus took his eyes off their surroundings and gave Grief a mildly irritated look. She lifted a brow at him.

"A simple question as to why this secret passage is crawling with those you're trying to avoid, that's all." She said in an even tone. "It seems to me that the emperor's Blades aren't doing all that great a job at this moment, or that they have confused the term "secret" with something more akin to "open public knowledge"."

"I admit, things aren't going exactly as planned," Baurus retorted. "But our job is to get the emperor out of here alive, and that's what I plan to do."

"You may have your work cut out for you."

Baurus's jaw tightened a little. "I would imagine you'd be happier with the turn of events," he said coolly. "If not for the emperor, you would be dead, and it is because of him that you walk free."

"I hardly consider myself free when I have hoards of assassins breathing down my neck." Grief murmured.

Baurus considered replying, thought better of it, and turned his attention back to the shadowy passages.

"Hold up," Glenroy called from ahead, raising a hand to stop his followers. "I don't like this. Let me take a look around."

Sword at the ready, Glenroy descended into a wide room where darkened corners and recesses offered admirable hiding places for the malevolent. Grief stepped forward just enough to pass the entrance, holding the torch as high as she could in order to allow some of the feeble light to penetrate the shadows. Glenroy's body was tense, waiting expectantly, and Baurus stood with his knees slightly bent, ready to bound forward at the slightest sign of danger. When none could be found, the elder Blade signaled to the others to come forward.

"All clear," he said, almost skeptically. "Hurry. We're almost through."

When at last the final passages were navigated through, Grief almost allowed a small glimmer of hope to rise up that they would get out of that place without any more trouble. However, that hope was drowned almost the moment they reached a gated corridor. Glenroy tried the gate once, twice, then swore and struck his weapon against it, causing it to ring tauntingly.

"Damn it! The gate's barred from the other side-a trap!"

Baurus looked around anxiously. "What about that side passage?" he asked, nodding to a small pathway that led to a smaller room.

"Worth a try." Glenroy replied. "Come on."

The room had no obvious entrances or exits, save for the one from whence they came. It was barely much bigger than Grief's cell had been, and all at once, she felt the need to be out of it. It was hardly an admirable defensive position, yet there seemed to be nowhere else to go.

"Dead end." Baurus said, looking to Glenroy, whose eyes were dark and frustrated. "What's your call, Sir?"

At that moment, Grief felt it again. A prickling, eerie sensation that whispered through the air and alerted her to the presence of a spell being cast. She turned back to the entrance of the small chamber, and in the distance, could hear the telltale noise of a swift approach.

"They're behind us," she said sharply, taking a slight step back towards the emperor, her hand tightening over the hilt of her borrowed weapon.

"Damn it!" Glenroy swore again. Without another word, he rushed from the room, and a fierce cry gave sign that he had engaged their foes.

"For the Empire!"

"Prisoner, stay here with the emperor," Baurus shouted the order to her. "Guard him with your life!"

Then he, too, joined the battle.

The sounds of weapons clashing and armor being penetrated pounded in Grief's ears like a kettledrum, and she was once again reminded of the fact that she had so little to use in her own defense. Wishing now more than ever that she wore something sturdier than tattered prison clothes, she steeled herself and watched the darkened entrance, sword in one hand and dying torch in the other. Flashes of the battle occasionally burst into view when one of the party stumbled past the entrance and into her line of sight, and from what she could see, the two remaining Blades were outnumbered. Glenroy gave a strangled cry that was cut short, and Baurus's enraged shouting told Grief that the senior Blade would do battle no more. She briefly saw Baurus stagger under the fierce blows of an armored assassin, being forced back even as he struggled to find an opening after each desperate parry. Grief took a step forward, raised her arm, and sent the torch flying through the air in a red-and-orange pinwheel that struck the daedric helm of the assassin. Startled by the sudden blow, he made the fatal and reflexive move of turning his attention towards the source, and for a moment Grief wondered if she would have to fight off the attacker, until Baurus took advantage in his momentary lapse in attention and felled him with a strike to his side.

Grief considered whether further action on her part would be necessary to ensure she would not be the lone remaining sword left to fight off the other assassins when a hand suddenly grabbed her free wrist and twisted it. Something hard and smooth was pushed into her palm, and when she turned, she faced the disquieted gaze of Uriel Septim.

"I can go no further," he said to her in a low tone as his hand forced her fingers to close over something cool with slightly pointed edges. "You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings."

His voice was now anxious, quick and strained, and his eyes bored into hers. "Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son."

His hands moved to her shoulders and squeezed them once, an imploring gesture filled with the weight of matters Grief had yet to fully understand.

"Find him," he said, "and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

A sudden sound filled the room, the sound of stone sliding against stone that caused ancient layers of dust to shake free from the walls and ceiling. With strength and swiftness that Grief would not have fully expected from him, the emperor pushed her backwards, away from him, the large red amulet on its fine gold chain still clutched almost absent-mindedly in her hand. She stumbled once, an arm raising to assist her in catching her balance, while her head shot up to look at him with confusion. It was then that the opening in the wall fully appeared, and the assassin lurking within leapt out.

A cry wrenched its way free of her throat before she could stop it, unwilling and defiant and anguished all mixed together. Uriel's eyes had closed in dignified resignation, and his elderly expression hardly changed when the sword pierced his back and thrust through his chest, crimson blossoming wetly where the red amulet had formerly lay. Grief rushed forward just as the assassin placed his daedric boot on the emperor's back and kicked forward to pull his bloody sword free of the corpse. A hand trust out, and Grief caught Uriel's body before it hit the ground.

The dead weight caused her to fall to one knee, and the killer stood over her, his voice cold and merciless.

"Stranger," he hissed, "you picked a _bad_ day to align yourself with the Septims."

The knowledge that nothing could be done rushed into her mind instantly, and Grief released the emperor's body and threw herself backwards, rolling away frantically from the blows of the assassin. Her back slammed against the wall, and she jumped to her feet, bringing the katana up just in time to deflect what would have been a fatal strike. She parried again and again with all her strength, and when the attacker aimed high at her neck, let her feet fall from under her so that her backside struck the ground, sweeping inelegantly with her legs to catch her foe and trip him. The tactic only partially worked, and he stumbled backwards while Grief leapt to her feet again and put her full force and weight behind the sword, driving it in through the assassin's body. With a sudden rippling, the evil metal armor faded, and only a red cloak and hood remained to cover the man who succeeded where others had failed in his mad quest to slay the emperor. She shook the body free of Captain Renault's blade and let it fall to the ground with a sickening thud, and then the room was still.

Only for a moment.

"_No_!"

Baurus's despairing cry was filled with more feeling than Grief's had been, and it caused her to flinch and turn away from the dead assassin. She found the Redguard kneeling over the emperor's body, touching him with a shaking hand, not daring to believe that which was the cruel reality.

After all their attempts to save him, Emperor Uriel Septim was dead.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head in anguish, his eyes closing. "No...Talos save us..."

He let his hand fall numbly to his side. Grief crossed the narrow length of the room and stood by him, looking down impassively at the dead lord that lay on the dirty stone floor. Her legs trembled slightly.

"We've failed," Baurus whispered. "_I've_ failed. The Blades are sworn to protect the emperor and now he and all his heirs are dead."

Grief tried to speak, but the words died before she could voice them. There was nothing to say. The emperor was dead. She was alive. She had been right there, feet away from him, and yet...

She wanted to look away, but instead she forced herself to stare at the emperor's lifeless figure. Anger and resentment and guilt and, inexplicably, a sense of loss, settled upon her mind like a heavy shroud. She had not known him, had not trusted or believed him, yet for some reason, the fact that he was now dead filled her with a cold numbness. She willed herself unsuccessfully not to care. The knowledge that she could have been rotting in a prison cell instead of standing over Uriel Septim's corpse ran through her mind and evoked a bitter grimace of frustration.

Baurus's eyes opened and he looked hopelessly at the emperor. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he sharply looked up at Grief.

"The amulet!" He cried. "Where's the Amulet of Kings? They've taken it! They've-"

Grief lifted a hand, and her fingers, which were growing stiff from being clenched so soundly, slowly uncurled. A red jewel shone from beneath them, attached to a glittering golden chain. She looked at it, then at Baurus.

"He gave it to me," she said softly. "Before he died. He gave it to me, and..."

Her voice sounded hollow. The emperor's last words, his last expression in life, flooded her mind, and she stopped to look back down dumbly at the amulet. It glowed softly with its own ethereal light, and Grief could sense an odd sort of force, a soft, rhythmic pulsing, almost like a heartbeat.

"Strange," Baurus murmured, standing slowly and looking from Grief to the emperor and back again. "He saw something in you. Trusted you. They say the Dragon's Blood that flows through every Septim allows them to see more than lesser men. More than Glenroy or even I could hope to see." He said Glenroy's name, and another wave of despair flicked across his sturdy features.

"But why give it to me?" Grief asked, yet the question was not fully directed at Baurus. It was more a question to herself, a disbelieving musing.

"For some reason, he believed in you," the Redguard answered. "He believed you could keep it safe. The Amulet of Kings is a sacred symbol of the Empire. Only a true heir of the Septim blood can wear it, they say."

A true heir of the Septim blood...another heir...

"There is another heir."

She said the words slowly with dawning realization, testing them carefully as she said them, hesitantly.

"What?" The comment had taken Baurus off guard completely.

"The emperor," Grief explained. "Just before he died, when he gave the amulet to me, he said something. He told me to take the amulet to someone...someone named Jauffre. He said there is another heir, that Jauffre would know where to find him."

Baurus frowned. "It's nothing that I've ever head about, but Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of the Blades, though you wouldn't know it looking at him. He lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol."

Baurus studied her for a moment, and she held his gaze. He was considering her, and she seemed to be considering herself, and the action the situation called for. Then, silently, her hand closed over the amulet again. She said nothing, but Baurus seemed to take that as a concession more than anything else. He shifted his gaze to the opening in the wall the assassin had leapt through.

"Through here must be the tunnel that leads to the sewers, past the locked gate, where we were originally heading. You'll need this to get there," he added, and he gave to her a small key. "The sewers are dangerous, filled with rats and goblins."

"I'll manage," Grief said briskly, shaking off as much of her stirring emotions as she could. "Anything else?"

"Take no chances, but proceed to Weynon Priory immediately. I'll stay here to guard the emperor's body and make sure no one follows you, but nonetheless, don't delay. You must get the Amulet of Kings to Jauffre as soon as possible."

"I'll keep that in mind," Grief said somewhat evasively, trying to leave herself as much non-committal room as possible.

As she turned, Baurus suddenly took her wrist, not the one that held the amulet, but the one tightly holding the blood-drenched sword.

"Captain Renault's blade," he said slowly. "You brought it with you." He hesitated. "Will you give it to me? It deserves an honored place in our halls of the Blades..."

It was really less of a question as Baurus pulled the sword from her hand. Grief's eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"I'll be unarmed," she pointed out.

"You only have to get through the sewers from here."

"You _yourself_ said they were dangerous. Rats and goblins, remember?"

"You managed to follow us, and made it this far. You're resourceful, to say the least."

"And now _unarmed_." She accentuated the word heavily.

"From what I understand, Bretons are hardly defenseless. You have strong magicka talent I lack."

Grief opened her mouth, on the verge of saying something, when she stopped and closed it. Baurus hesitated again, then pulled a small dagger from his belt, a last resort weapon of sorts should he ever find himself separated from his sword in the midst of a struggle. Grief took the dagger and looked at it, testing its weight in her hand. It had none of the reach of the katana, but she seemed unwilling to show any real disappointment.

"I prefer lighter weapons anyway," she said stubbornly.

She was almost through the passage when Baurus called out to her one last time.

"Wait. What is your name?"

She turned back to him. A small crease appeared between her eyebrows.

"Grief," she answered.

"Your name is _Grief_?" he asked.

She nodded, and looked one last time at the body of the emperor.

_And with good reason_, she thought.


	5. Chapter Four

_**Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion  
Grief of Dawn**_

_**Chapter Four: A Moment's Contemplation**_

If the rats in the Imperial Prison had been large, they were nothing compared to the ones that lurked within the sewers, where there was apparently a greater abundance of food, even without the occasional dead inmate to feast upon. The goblins there were no better, slinking about in the filth and spearing mudcrabs in the channels of murky water that bubbled between small stone canals, leering at each other and comparing the size of the skulls fashionably tied around their necks. Grief took slightly less time attempting to conceal her presence than she had before. After fifteen minutes in the sewers, she was so dirty she doubted whether she was immediately distinguishable from the grime-encrusted walls, moving or stationary.

It was impossible to tell how long it took before some light at the end of the tunnels appeared. Now that she was traveling alone again, with the stillness of her surroundings pressing down on her, the full weight of all that had occurred fell upon her mind like a hammer striking an anvil. Exhaustion and confusion warped her focus and concentration, and the most she truly remembered of her time in the sewers was a blur of grey and black surroundings accompanied by an overpowering smell of mold and decay. She promised herself bleakly that when she found her way out of the sewers at last, she would never, _ever_ set foot in them again for as long as she lived.

A rusted gate was the last obstacle she would have to overcome before she reached freedom and the outside world. A few resolute kicks and persuasive shoves and the gate opened reluctantly. Grief clamored to the mouth of the tunnel, taking note that it was a large sewer pipe that drained out to the edge of Lake Rumare, and hesitated before jumping down. Caution still bit at the back of her tired mind, and the thought that if assassins could somehow find their way into a secret escape tunnel beneath the city that none save a few were supposed to have knowledge of, they could find their way out just as easily, possibly by the same route she herself had taken. When several agonized moments of trap-searching and cautious peeking yielded no results, her feet hit the ground and she stood, squinting up at the sun, staring at the rolling hills and tall trees for the first time in what seemed like years. Grief Terrim was free.

Normally when a person finds him or herself in such a situation, there is a moment of overflowing emotion that causes them pause. They might take time to revel in the softness of the wind blowing over the water's surface, the sound of the birds and insects rising up from the grass and trees, the warmth of light touching bruised and scratched skin, or even just the feel of gentle earth beneath their feet. A deep, grateful breath of fresh air may be drawn in to banish the lingering smell that remained from darker places, and even tears of joy may be shed that a nightmare had ended and now, finally, sweet emancipation.

Grief did none of these things. Blinking back the half-blinding light, she marched to the edge of the water, stripped off her tattered prison clothes, piled them next to a rock with the amulet, dagger and a few other scavenged baubles folded inside them, and tossed herself unceremoniously into the water. Slaughterfish and mudcrabs be damned, she needed a bath.

The water was cool and shocked her numb mind back into a state of semi-awareness, and had the manacles on her wrists not weighted her down, she would have taken the time to enjoy the bath. Layers of dirt, muck and blood was scrubbed off to reveal smooth, pale skin, tangled hair was straightened and washed until it regained its black sheen, and tender wounds were carefully inspected and cleaned. Afterwards, Grief settled herself on the rocky lakeshore with her back against a boulder, letting the sun dry her off, her hair cascading down to cover her small breasts and her legs crossed in front. Had anyone been traveling down the road from the Heartlands and happened to look towards the water's edge, they would more likely have guessed to seeing a water nymph of sorts sitting there, impatiently hammering a jagged rock against wrist manacles until the rusted metal twisted and broke loose. The heavy wrist irons, which had proven an asset against the jaws of a hungry rat, were ungratefully tossed into the water and sank to the bottom of the lake to be forgotten.

Now wholly unrestrained, Grief sighed and let her gaze settle unfocusedly to a point just above a white wisp of a cloud that floated in the sky. She hadn't slept in days, even before the chaotic events that led up to her escape, yet she didn't dare sleep now. Though the dirt had been removed, dark shadows still pooled under her eyes, standing out starkly against her white skin, where they had existed for months before she had been arrested, and would likely exist long after. Sleep would only be allowed when it was absolutely necessary, and even then only in short increments. There was less a chance of dreaming then.

Instead, perhaps to keep herself preoccupied with something other than how damn tired she was, Grief slipped a hand between the pile of prison clothes and extracted the red amulet that had been forced into her possession. Held dangling from its golden chain in front of her, she peered at it, examining it with a slight frown. The crimson gem glanced sunlight off its surface that was caught and reflected in the smaller semiprecious-to-precious stones set around the edges. Even though Grief held it by its chain, she could still feel an odd sort of shiver running up it and into her hand, a gentle but unambiguous power. For as gaudy as it was, it was obviously more than just a piece of jewelry.

"What a thing to symbolize the Empire," she muttered aloud. Had she known the legend behind its existence, the tale of Akatosh's gift to man as a sign of faith and protection, Grief would perhaps had been more impressed, assuming she felt patient enough to stomach any sort of story dealing with the Gods.

Grief shifted her weight so that her elbow was resting upon her crossed leg, chin in hand, still scrutinizing the jewel. It was a pretty thing, if heavy. Probably worth quite a bit of gold, she reasoned, though that was as far as the thought went. Instead, her mind settled back on to what the emperor had said, the sense of urgency in his voice and eyes before the assassin cut him down.

_Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son._

_Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion._

Greif sucked in a deep breath, held it, and let it slip back out in a long sigh.

_Why me?_

Uriel Septim was dead, yet before he died, he had acted as though she had been important. He claimed to have seen something in her, that she could help them, save them, against a coming darkness. That was a laugh, seeing as how she couldn't even save an old man from a killer when he'd been less than four feet in front of her. She couldn't save anyone. Half the time, she was mildly surprised that she managed to save herself.

Yet now, here she was, alive, with the dead emperor's pretty necklace dangling from her fingertips, wrapped up in something she didn't understand.

Her face pulled itself into a frustrated frown. Why should she care? What did she owe the emperor, owe the people of Tamriel, owe anyone at all anywhere? Why did she have to get stuck with this stupid piece of lurid jewelry, which presented itself as more of a problem than anything else. Suppose the Legion caught her with it? Or one of those crazed assassins? Or even just a bandit on the road desiring it for himself? Useless amulet was going to get her killed, probably. And what for?

"Hey," Greif said, her eyes still on the amulet. "What exactly do you expect from me, anyway? You don't know me. There's nothing I can do. What more do you really want?"

The previously unasked questions were abandoned in the air with no one left to answer them. No hint of distant blue flicked across the bright red, no gentle voice addressed her with cordial kindness. Grief felt stupid for even saying anything. After all, dead men could speak no more.

Her frustration grew, and a look of defiance crossed over her emerald eyes as they switched from the amulet to the water's surface. She could do it. She could be rid of the thing, let it sink down with the discarded irons, lost forever, or for at least a great while. She could abandon it, and any memory of what had occurred. She could walk away.

So strong were these thoughts that Grief actually raised her arm, poised with the amulet dangling helplessly against her wrist. It remained there for a few moments, sending tingling chills down her fingers and hand. There it remained as the seconds slipped by, suspended, waiting. A minute passed, then another. Grief bit her lip.

When her arm started to ache, she lowered it again and pulled the Amulet of Kings into her palm, looking down at it with another long sigh. "Damn," she grumbled with resignation. "Damn."

The amulet flickered back up at her, a response if ever one could be found.

_He lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol..._

Regaining whatever trace of modesty she possessed, Grief donned her tattered prison clothes once more and placed the Amulet of Kings and her few other possessions scrounged up in the sewers carefully in the one pocket that didn't have any gaping holes. She stood, holding Baurus's dagger firmly in one hand, and looked out across the lake for a while longer, finally taking pause to assess herself, her surroundings, and the various fleeting thoughts that chased themselves about her head. Chorrol was west of the Imperial City, and depending on her rate of travel and whether she stuck to the roads or cut cross-country, it could take near a day or two to reach. In her current state and with her very limited supplies, it would be foolhardy to leave immediately and hope for the best. She needed resources, money, and proper traveling clothes. She needed something better than a small dagger for protection. She needed a plan.

Grief turned slowly and looked at the grey walls and towers of the Imperial City. Behind her eyes, some quick, creative thinking was being done. The city was unsafe for her, perhaps more unsafe than the wilderness itself. Yet her terse expression relaxed a little as her mind began to formulate the plan she needed. It was a little risky, and overall foolish.

And she might just be able to pull it off.


	6. Chapter Five

_****__**Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion  
Grief of Dawn**_

_**Chapter Five: Honor Among Thieves**_

The Waterfront District looks pleasant enough in the moonlight, when the thousand winking faces of the stars are reflected in the smooth surface of the water gently lapping at the stone docks and the underbellies of merchant ships. The air blowing in off the lake is cool and calming, and carries with it the slight scent of wilder waters flowing in from the Niben Bay. Turn away from the lake, however, and you catch the stink of the city and the peasant trash who so frequently make their homes there. Filthy, lopsided shacks crowd in around each other like a huddle of dirty orphans trying to keep warm, emitting foul-smelling smoke from broken windows and shattered chimneys. Beggars and thieves and sometimes worse prowl the streets, fighting and feeding off one another in a parasitic web of lies and trickery and closely guarded secrets. Merchants keep one eye always on their wares, fully prepared to harshly punish any who draw too close to their precious ships. Not even twilight can fully mask the dirtiest corner of the otherwise proud Imperial City, the empire's secret shame that is really not so secret at all.

Tonight the streets were still and empty, void of its usual scavengers. Guards combing the area earlier had chased most of the vagabonds away, and all the rest were cowering within their homes or bedrolls, frightened of the change that was going on, frightened by the news. Many of them had so little to do with the empire's political troubles, but now even they felt the ripples that may come to affect them. The presence of numerous guards and Legion officials in their typically ignored realm of refuse and shadows offered proof enough that even they would come to notice the absence of the emperor.

The stillness of the night was interrupted by the breaking of water over a sleek form darting through the lazy currents. Droplets shed easily from smooth scales and light cloth, worn only because it made swimming easier than typical leather armor. A clawed hand grappled at the stone pier until it found its grip, then hauled out the rest of the body it was firmly attached to. The Argonian shook himself lightly only once, dripping from spiked head to vermilion tail, before he straightened and examined the area around him. No guards. He doubted whether they would care about his frequent trips into the lake's depths, but he'd rather not run into them. They'd been hauling off people for questioning all day now, ever since the news of the emperor and his three heirs being slain had been leaked. It spread through the city like wildfire, no doubt fueled by _The Black Horse Courier_. Everyone knew something about it by now, giving the guards reason enough to take anyone in for questioning about who, how, and why.

All that proved was that the Imperial Watch had no more idea of what had happened than the beggars did.

When Amusei was satisfied that the coast was clear, he began his slow, leisurely gait through the darkened streets that he knew only too well. A soaked pouch was clutched in his other hand, a wet mass of shapeless leather wrapped clumsily around a small cluster of pearls, the only spoils from the night's diving. Though he was more used to taking from fool nobles in the richer parts of the city, Amusei didn't miss a chance to collect a few tokens from the lake's bed. Like others of his water-breathing kind, he preferred moving through the water to moving about on land.

Amusei hugged the stone walls and slipped through the cover of the shadows they cast until he reached the Garden of Dareloth, whereupon he paused when alerted to a noise coming from the alleys created between the numerous shacks. Amusei had never been very quick on the draw, a bad trait for a thief. His eyes and nose were both trained so intently on what could have been in front of him that he failed to notice the figure that dropped down behind him from one of the sloping roofs, at least until an arm jerked around his neck while another hand clamped down hard on his reptilian snout. A muffled sound issued from his clenched jaw as he struggled against the figure that was pulling his neck backward, bending his spine in an unpleasant angle due to height differences.

"The Shadows were never very good to you, were they?" A voice softly hissed.

Amusei stopped struggling almost immediately.

"Don't make a sound," was the command issued to him as the Argonian felt himself being pulled back away from the houses and deeper into the cover of darkness, where there was less a chance of being spotted by straggling guards and curious peasants. Once the two of them were at a safe distance with a satisfying lack of light to keep them hidden, Amusei felt his jaw released and the small arm slip away from his neck. He lurched forward, coughing a bit and turning as he rubbed his sinewy throat.

"_Grief_?"

"You've remembered," the Breton offered him a thin, wry smile. "I'm flattered."

Amusei's reptilian eyes bulged in the dark, casting light from the tiny stars off their surface as clearly as the water had. They took in the form of the pale young woman before him for some time. Then his face split into a wide, toothy smile, his jaw dropping slightly as all Argonians did when they grinned.

"Grief!" He said with an actual amount of joy in his tone. "Well skin my scales and call me a Khajiit, it _is_ you!" He gave a throaty laugh. "How long has it been?"

"Not long enough," Grief answered candidly. "This place still smells like an ogre's den."

"As sentimental as always," Amusei mused. "What in the world are you doing here? Where have you been? It has been...six, seven months since I last heard any word from you. There are some unpleasant rumors still circling about now and again, but for the most part, everyone-"

"Hold on, slow down you fool," Grief ordered. "Not here. We need to get someplace safer. Someplace quiet. Then we can talk."

"As if the streets are not quiet enough," Amusei said, but nodded. "I understand your point, little Grief. Too many eyes and ears about, always, no matter how deserted the place seems. But why come to me like this?" He rubbed his nose. "A little violent, weren't you?"

"I have something to discuss with you, Amusei," Grief answered cryptically. "I'd prefer some privacy first. I've gone to great lengths to make sure I wasn't seen by anyone inside the city, and I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible."

She had turned away from him a little, peering out of the gloom for any sign of unwelcome listeners. When she glanced back, something in the Argonian's expression caused her to ask, "What is it?"

Amusei shifted his weight on his long legs uncomfortably. "Well," he began slowly, "it is...unsafe for me this way. I would rather not risk being seen with you. There has...much has happened here since you left, things are hectic right now, and the rumors being said..." He hesitated. "You should not have come back to the city. It is dangerous, and if anyone sees us..."

"Which is why we need to stop standing about like this," Grief said irritably. "Come on, Amusei. If you want to make sure no one catches us, then we need to be somewhere safe."

Still the red lizard showed no sign of action, and Grief gave him a stern look. "I've a lot I need to talk about with you, Amusei, and I'm not leaving until I do. Now come on."

Her last words were said in such a way they gave no room for debate, and Amusei issued a sigh of resignation. The joy bred from familiarity was quickly killed now that Amusei took a moment to fully assess the trouble this girl could cause him. Already he wondered if the swift eyes and ears of the Grey Fox's faithful watchmen had caught wind of her presence. If they had, then he was already in trouble. Yet Grief was careful in her own way, and if there was even a chance that she had managed to slink about undetected, as she seemed certain there was, then he'd better not waste it. Better to get her out of sight, figure out what she could possibly want, and get rid of her before she lived up to her name and caused him a real headache.

"Come this way, then," he said to her, waving a scaled hand. "Quickly. Stay out of sight."

"Of course," she answered.

They used the blanket of darkness as much as possible while Amusei nervously lead Grief through the Garden, crisscrossing over worn paths and weaving throughout the tiny homes that grew smaller and dirtier the further in they delved. It wasn't until they reached the last smallest, saddest looking excuse for a hovel that Amusei slowed his anxious pace. He darted up to the lopsided door and pushed it open.

"Here," he said quietly. "Hurry!"

Grief had to bow her head to step inside, and even when she stood it was not at full height. The ceiling sloped at a sharp angle, getting comfortably higher only towards the end of the room where a cluster of blankets sat in a ball. A dirty makeshift fire pit was in one corner where the walls and floor were charred and black from ash, and a table with a single chair crowded in the middle of the one-room house. There was only one window, set in the sloping roof and bereft of any glass to keep out rain. The entire place reeked of mold and mildew, and the walls were damp and heavy. Amusei didn't mind, and probably preferred the cool wetness, but Grief wrinkled her nose a bit.

"This is...quaint," she said at length, examining the scorch marks on the table. "This pretty little palace yours then?"

"Keep your voice down," Amusei cautioned, locking the crooked door as best he could with the rusted lock he had scavenged from the lake and repaired himself. Hopefully, it would unlock when he needed it to this time. "Yes, it is my place, and there is no need to mock it so," he added defensively as he lit a short stub of a candle and set it on the table.

"I wasn't." Grief watched as Amusei grabbed a broken wooden crate shoved near the blanket heap and sat down on it, facing her. She chose the chair, which wobbled, one of its legs nearly rotted through.

"So tell me, how did you manage to win this little keeper of a home?" Grief asked when he had done nothing but stare at her apprehensively for a minute or two. "Last time I saw you, you were coinless and had only just managed to find a place in the Thief's Guild."

"Been doing much better lately," Amusei replied. "Managed to make some gold as a proper thief. Straightened myself out, and now I am even running errands for the Grey Fox himself." He smiled a little at her polite surprise. "I have you to thank for that, too, I am thinking."

"Good of you to remember that," she said crisply.

"And what of you, little Grief?" He asked, still accustom to the pet name she had earned back when she'd been little more than a child trying to gain a place in the Guild. "Where have you been all this time? After what happened to your brother, I heard you disappeared, and there was some nasty gossip that took your place for a time. But now, here you are again, as blatantly and subtlety as ever. Why is it you have come back?"

Grief's posture has stiffened just a little, and her eyes were a dark mask that Amusei could construe nothing from. However, her tone remained as simple and light as it had before, laden with its old familiar sarcasm. "I missed you."

"Very funny," Amusei snorted. He looked at her more seriously. "You wear your prison garments well," he said as he eyed her attire. "So you really were caught by the guards and hauled off to the dungeons. How long were you there? How did you escape? They say no one has managed to find their way out of there alive since the days of Jagar Tharn."

"I had some help from a doomed prophet and a couple crazed assassins."

"More of your interesting stories, Grief?"

"What can I say? I lead an interesting life."

Amusei sighed and shook his head, hands folded in front of his nose. He could never tell with her. She was being serious, yet she was amusing herself at his expense. She had always easily twisted truth and lies and made things vague enough to fall into either category, depending on her whim and particular mood, thus he never quite knew when to listen to her and when to brush her off. Yet she sat there with relative serenity over the whole matter, save for a sharpness around her edges that never quite disappeared.

"Why are you here?" He tried again.

"I was looking for you," she replied in a businesslike tone. "You owe me a favor, and I've come to collect."

"Collect?" He repeated sharply. "What nonsense is this?"

"Not nonsense at all, but merely a friend coming to call upon another friend due for repayment of a service."

"We are hardly friends."

"Acquaintances then? Allies? Associates? Comrades-in-arms?"

"Grief, please."

"No, truly, if saving your life more than once hasn't made us bosom buddies I am curious as to where exactly we stand. No need to get my heart broken more than I already have." She leaned forward and rested her chin in her palm, scrutinizing him. "I was under the impression you have me to thank for where you are right now."

Amusei swept his tail across the floor, peering at his claws reflectively. "You have helped me," he admitted reluctantly, fearing how deep she planned to ensnare him. "But things are different now."

"How so?"

"How so?" He looked at her grimly. "Do not act as though you have no idea what I am speaking of. Before, it is true, there was much you did for me, but now I must think first of myself and my position. Your position as well." He leaned back, letting his tail keep him from falling off the crate. "There was nasty talk about you after your brother disappeared. You have been expelled from the Guild, imprisoned and branded a liar and a betrayer, among other things. You did not help your case by fleeing the city for however many months before you were captured. What would happen if they heard you came to me and asked for help? If they thought I gave it? You have been accused of murder," he said heavily, watching keenly for a change in her demeanor. "Now frankly, I care little about the murder of one innocent guard or another, but the Grey Fox thinks a little differently when it comes to unnecessary blood shed. If you want help from the Guild, take it up with Armand Christophe. I can do nothing, not without risking more than I am willing to give."

"I am not looking for help from the Guild," Grief replied evenly. "Nor do I care much about whatever gossip is being spread around. I came here to talk to you, not Armand and not the Fox. You owe me."

"I want no part in whatever it is you need," Amusei said stubbornly. "Go ask Methredhel if you must. She liked you."

"That is why," Grief said. "But I am here. Methredhel would aid me out of favoritism, but she would still have her loyalties to the Fox, which I won't ask her to break merely for my sake. You, on the other hand, are going to help me because you are going to honor your debts."

"I do not owe you that much!" Amusei snapped, raising his voice more than he meant to. "You come in here like a-"

"I'm sorry, who was it you have to thank for getting out of the Leyawiin dungeons when Ahdarji would just rather have seen you killed?" Grief demanded, her tone hardening.

"Yes, but-"

"And who saved you from the Pale Lady rather than letting you wind up like Theranis?"

"Yes, but-"

"And who risked hide and hair to escort you safely out of Skingrad when the guards would have just left you for dead?"

"Yes, _but_-"

"And who did you admit having to thank for the position you now have as the Fox's little errand boy?"

"_Yes, BUT_-"

Grief silenced him with a look, like a predator pinning prey in its sights. How she managed to pull that off every time, Amusei still didn't know. He swallowed hard when she leaned even closer.

"Let me say this one more time, as a _friendly_ reminder. You owe me."

"But Grief, little Grief, what would you have me do?" Amusei asked in despair, holding his hands out to her as imploringly as his words. "Understand. Please understand. You come here out of nowhere, right when the empire is in turmoil after the emperor's death, right when things are most difficult in the District, acting as though-"

"Hold on a moment, lizard," Grief said suddenly, raising a hand. "How did you know the emperor is dead?"

Amusei looked taken aback. "Have you not heard? The entire city is abuzz with it. It is why the Waterfront is so empty. Too many guards about asking too many questions, each more lost than the last. Everyone is afraid right now. Everyone has heard. The emperor and his three heirs, dead, right under the nose of the Watch. For the first time, we have no one to rule us, none at all. It would make any uneasy. Surely you know all this."

He was surprised when Grief's expression darkened visibly, her gaze focusing no longer on him but on the flickering candlelight. She had not expected the news to have circulated so quickly, but then again, she'd no idea how much time she'd spent in the ruins and the sewers. Feelings the Amulet of Kings sitting heavily in her pocket, Grief suddenly felt she had less time.

Amusei was curious as to what thoughts were brewing in the Breton's head, but dared not ask. She eventually looked back at him, considering him for a moment longer before speaking.

"Listen, Amusei. I'm not here to cause you _too_ much trouble, of that I assure you. But I cannot move easily throughout the city, especially not now. The guards around here know my face a little too well, and I've no doubt they wouldn't think twice of throwing me back in prison, which I have no intention of letting them do. I'm even less eager to run into anyone else from the Guild. I'm not planning on sticking around here, not very long. I just need some supplies so I can get out of here. Food, clothes, a proper weapon. Enough money to get me out of Cyrodiil. That's what I'm after."

"You think I can offer you such things?" He asked, raising a hand to present his sparse home to her. "You think I can give you what you need?"

"Of course not. I've a quick plan to get it, and you're going to play a part in that plan."

"Strange. I never knew you to be one to ask for help from others."

"That is because I'm not asking," she said with a faint smile that caused Amusei to grimace.

"If that is all you need," Amusei said slowly, still not willing to give in just yet, "why not get it yourself? You were a competent thief, even the Fox thought so. There are fewer guards in the noble's area, less chance of being caught. You could break in and steal a few things. Clothes, food, enough items to earn a bit of coin. I could even give you a lock pick to do so," he added hopefully. "Would that not be easier?"

His hopes were dashed by the look she gave him. "Where would I find a fence to give me a proper deal on stolen goods now that I'm not in the Guild?" she asked. "You know how they treat freelancers. And even if I found one, what good would that do me? I'm not looking for a few coins to make my way on, I need enough money for passage out of this place, and enough to get me settled once I reach elsewhere. After I finish a few errands first," she added reluctantly.

"Where will you go?"

Grief shrugged. "Morrowind, maybe. Elsweyr, if I'm feeling adventurous, or even Hammerfell."

"That will take money and supplies," Amusei admitted.

"Hence my problem." Grief folded her fingertips together and looked at him over their tops. At length, she said, "Look, I've already got an idea on how I'm going to pull this off. I just need a few things from you. A couple stolen items and maybe a single eve of your time. That's all. We can part ways, and call it even after that. I can almost guarantee you'll not see me again, and I can promise if you do, I won't be asking you for help."

"You ask a lot already," Amusei muttered.

"Mere payment for not leaving your bones to rot in a jail cell."

They regarded each other for a few moments, the unyielding young woman and the cautious, unwilling reptile. More differences could not be found between the two of them. Physical appearances aside, one was quick and tenacious, whereas the other was often clumsy and made the fool, casting him into such uncomfortable positions as to be thoroughly indebted to the young firebrand. Yet she drew on the simple, irrefutable fact that she had saved his life in the past when she did not have to, when their positions had been completely reversed and he had been the troublemaking freelance while she was the favored thief of the Guild. Why she had done it, Amusei had no idea, even now, though perhaps it was in reservation for times such as this. He could not destroy the unshakable truth she presented him and drove deeper and deeper with each word; that everything he had, he had because she'd taken the time and risk to help him when he needed it.

"All right," Amusei said slowly after a long pause had stretched between them. "All right. I will help you. But I expect you to honor the agreement that this is the only time!"

"Of course," Grief said cheerfully.

Amusei glared at her, then mumbled and grumbled for a while about the stupidity of the situation and the annoyance inherently involved with giving or receiving help from others, particularly when it resurfaced to bite you in the tail much later. Grief allowed him to do so with a placid expression, and when he exhausted his idiolect of irritated remarks and irate musings he finally sighed and rubbed his large eyes.

"Fine," he said. "So what is this plan of yours? How will you manage to earn a great deal of money and supplies without stealing?"

"Watch and see," Grief replied. "You'll be playing a small part in it, after all."

"Do not remind me." He let his hand drop away from his face. "So what exactly do you need from me?"

"Mainly just a few items. Some fancy noble clothes-clean ones, preferably in red and gold. A blank scroll and some black ink. A wooden bowl, a bottle of clear water, a leather belt, and a bit of red dye. Oh, and you'll need to get this cut down into smaller pieces, each no bigger than a tiny pebble," she added, withdrawing from her pocket a single gold nugget about the size of a strawberry, one of the few useful items she'd taken from the goblins in the sewers.

Amusei stared at it. He then looked at her.

"May I ask how by the Nine Divines you plan on using all that to earn more than a single septim, not to mention without drawing attention from the guards or the Guild?"

"Simple," Grief said with a coy grin. "By announcing our presence to the Waterfront District."


End file.
